


Child of Wrath

by WingletBlackbird



Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28980651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingletBlackbird/pseuds/WingletBlackbird
Summary: Arya's childhood from the loss of her father to the day she decided to leave Ellesmera.
Relationships: Arya Drottningu & Brom, Arya Drottningu&Faolin, Arya Drottningu&Islanzadi Drottning
Kudos: 5





	1. Where's Father?

**Author's Note:**

> In Eldest, Arya is said to be born a year before the fall of the Riders. That could mean a year before the beginning or the end of the war. I am going with the beginning. She is about five years old or so when this story begins. You can picture her physically as about two or three though, since I imagine elves age a bit slower. 
> 
> Also, I have this outlined, but I write as a means of comfort. I find the practice soothing and my interests can jump around. My stories are rarely abandoned, and if they are I will mark them as such, but my update schedule will be sporadic.

“Arya. Arya! Come outside!” 

Arya was playing quietly in her room with the pieces for Runes when she heard her mother’s call. She stood up and dashed to the door before pausing, and after a moment’s hesitation, returned to stack the pieces neatly and put the game away. Mother was always on edge lately, and Arya had quickly learned even at so young an age as five, it was best to avoid anything that might aggravate her moods. Her mother had been teetering on a knife's edge ever since her father had left, alternately clinging to Arya, or retiring to her rooms insisting she could not be disturbed, snapping at every slight irritation. When she did come out, her eyes were distant, and Arya had learned not to bother her, rather than ask her to play. It was too hard to see her mother be both present and absent. 

Arya could hardly wait for her father to return, and things could return to normal. If nothing else, Father always knew how to soothe Mother. Arya had spied on them once, when mother had seemed so overwhelmed from the war, and her father had come from behind and wrapped his arms around her whispering something into her ear with a kiss. Her mother’s entire body had relaxed and she had turned and wrapped her arms around her mate’s neck. Arya had felt safe. The little girl craved that feeling of security again. 

“Yes, Mother?” Arya darted up to where her mother was waiting at the gates to Tialdari Hall, craning her neck, peering into the distance. Hardly looking at Arya as she approached, her mother extended a hand to her. Arya took it. 

“The army is returning.”

“Father’s coming home?” Arya’s voice rose in excitement and she bounced on her tiptoes. 

This time her mother looked down at her. Her eyes were dark, deep tunnels. Young as she was, Arya had been raised in enough of war to recognise they had been made by fear. There was a vulnerability there as well that Arya didn’t understand. 

“Yes.” She said brittlely. “We’ll go meet them at the hall as soon as your cousin joins us.” 

Arya smiled widely, although it was somewhat hindered by her mother’s mood. Father was coming home, and all would be right in the world. She bounced on the balls of her feet. Soon she saw her cousin, Vindar, come bounding up. He seemed solemn and grim. Mother must have already told him what was going on with her mind, Arya mused, since they left the gardens without any conversation. 

As they walked briskly, and stiffly, in her mother and cousins’ cases, down the path, others joined them to form a procession. Not many had been left behind when her father had led the army against Galbatorix, (who Arya knew was very _bad_ ). The only ones who had stayed behind were those who needed to maintain their borders and wards in Du Weldenvarden, and those with young children to care for. Many, as was the case with Arya’s own aunt and uncle, had left their children with family so they too could fight to defend the majestic dragons. In the growing crowd, Arya heard scattered laughs of other children who, like her, couldn’t wait to see family again. The rest of the adults seemed tense. Their faces were set forward and looked hard as a stone. Arya didn’t really understand it. She’d been told, to her immense frustration, to leave the room whenever the grown-ups talked. She knew things were bad--almost all the dragons were dead, and a lot of good people were hurt, and cities had been burned--but that was before her father had led the army to Ilirea. No one could stand against all of them with her father in charge! 

Arya started to crane her neck trying to see. Her mother was the King’s mate so they were at the front as they waited, but Arya was impatient. She tugged on her mother’s gown firmly asking to be picked up. Sighing slightly, her mother obliged, and hefted her onto the crook of her elbow. From this new vantage point, Arya could see the black banners of the returning company. 

“No,” she heard Vindar start in a breathless voice. She looked back at the banners, and wondered what was so significant about them. She felt more than heard her mother’s breath hitch, and her arms wrapped so tightly around Arya it almost hurt. Confused, Arya placed her hands on her mother’s shoulder trying to see better. All around her, people were hissing, and whispering, and some were keening. What was wrong? What happened?

“Mother?” 

“Hush, Arya.” Her mother spoke tightly. Feeling a bit hurt, Arya took the time to look at her face only to find it wet with tears. This, more than anything, scared Arya. It must really hurt a lot, because her mom never cried at things that scared Arya, like the dark, or scraping her knee, or cutting her hand. Whatever was happening must be really, really _bad_. Arya wrapped her small arms around her mother’s neck. 

“It’ll be okay.” She whispered into her ear, which made her mother shudder as she choked on a blunt laugh that didn’t sound like she was really having fun. 

Peering out from the crook of her mother’s neck, Arya looked for her father, as elves suddenly broke rank and ran to their families. There were shouts of joy, and more often screams of pain. One commander, Arya thought his name might be Lord Dathedr, approached them and bowed. Curious, Arya lifted her head to see him better. His face was wet too.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “I regret I must inform you...the King is dead.”

Her mother keened with a high shriek that seemed to come from her lower belly. It bent her over it was so strong. It echoed through the trees and Arya almost fell from her mother’s arms as she howled. What did dead mean? Arya knew the word, had heard it often, and she knew that it meant something hurt, and people not coming back, and it was _not good_...but what about her father?

Blagden swooped in and shouted, “Wyrda!” before landing on her mother’s shoulder.

“Mother,” she whispered when she mustered the courage, “where’s Father?”

Her mother looked down at her as if she didn’t recognise her. Her Aunt Nira, her father’s older sister came forward and picked her up instead.

“He’s dead, child.” She muttered, placing her lips right beside Arya’s ear. 

“I don’t understand.” 

“He was hurt so badly by Galbatorix that he can't get better. He is...gone, and his body cannot move. It’s...it’s... he will be buried, and…” Her Aunt stopped and Arya saw tears in her eyes too, and it was unbelievably scary. Arya felt her heart racing ever faster, and felt her own tears sting her eyes.

“Where’s Father?” She shrieked, but no one answered. Vindar approached and asked his mother the same question.

“I regret to say,” she said haltingly, “that he, too, has passed into the void. As has,” she stopped and swallowed three times, “as has your elder brother.” She shook so badly Arya wondered how her aunt didn’t collapse or drop her like her mother almost had.

Vindar sank to the ground and wailed. Arya joined in with her own tears feeling scared and upset more by instinct than understanding. Something about the sight of her daughter and her nephew’s raw emotions stirred something in Arya’s mother. She stood taller, wiped her face, conferred briefly with Dathedr, and, using magic, raised her voice to address everybody.

“Our King is dead!” She spoke clearly, but there was something deep in her voice that spoke of immense bereavement giving her voice weight and presence. “Galbatorix has defeated us. And if he finds us, our people shall be lost. But we will not cower forever! We shall strengthen our wards, and guard our forest-cities until we find new ways to match him. However, until that day comes, it must be decreed that _no one_ shall leave Du Weldenvarden’s borders without the _direct_ permission of the new monarch, for those that do so, shall jeopardize us all. We cannot allow any elf to be captured alive, and information to be extracted therein. Go home, grieve, and only when we are again strong, shall we dare to venture out once more.”

The crowd waited in silence, but it seemed there were no more words or explanations, and slowly the army disbanded and the people dispersed, defeated. Arya saw that whatever energy had filled her mother when she spoke had left her, making her look terribly deflated, lost, and worn. 

“Come, Arya,” she waved a hand looking exhausted. “We must pay our last respects to your father before the funeral.” 

Arya scrambled down from her aunt’s arms and timidly took her mother’s hand fearing what awaited her. Blagden swooped overhead. 

In a grove her father lay wrapped in what she was told was a shroud. He looked like he could be sleeping. And Arya didn’t understand, at first, why this was so scary. Why couldn’t he just wake up? Why couldn’t they just wake him up? He didn't look hurt. He didn’t even look sick. 

“Why won’t he wake?”

“Because he isn’t there, child.”

“Huh?”

“His spirit, his essence, is gone. There’s just his body, but he cannot make it move, or work, or think, or fight, because there is no energy left in him. All that he can offer now is his flesh to give life to the forest. His final offering.”

Arya tried to understand, and as she looked at her father, she started to. There was a stillness to him that was not natural. His skin looked like it could be clay. His hair was perfectly coiffed. Too perfect. Father had had a habit of running his fingers through it. He was like a perfectly sculpted figure of her father...but her father was no longer there. Her mother leaned forward to kiss her mate’s brow, but Arya screamed as the moment comprehension struck her. She screamed and ran through the woods for as long as she could until she tripped from her blurry vision. Tears streamed down her face, as she shrieked once more. Howled in an irrational belief that if she screamed loud enough it would scare everything bad away, and her father would hear her, and come as he always did. All that happened was her mother finding her, holding her, and rocking her, until Arya faded into her dreams. 

She awoke when she was alone in her room. Feeling like a heavy weight was pressing on her, she slowly rose, changed, made herself “presentable,” mother was always strict about that, and went to the dining area. Her distant cousin, Niduen sat there, as did Vindar. Running up, she gave them both a hug, mostly to reassure herself that they, at least, were still there.

“Where’s mother and Aunt Nira?” 

“In meeting with Council,” Niduen replied softly as Vindar poked his food. “They need to determine who will rule us next.”

“When will they be back?”

“I don’t know, but I doubt they shall leave until they have decided. We cannot afford instability at the moment.”

“Instability?” Niduen sighed and it irritated Arya. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t know big words yet. 

“It means that the people need to know who is in charge lest they panic. With Galbatorix in power and hunting us, we need to be strong.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, now you should eat. I need to take you to see your father.”

Arya furrowed her brow. “I thought he was dead.”

“He is. You’ll just be seeing his body to say a final farewell. It’s traditional to take at least a day for everyone he was close to to pay their respects.”

Arya nodded, and tried to force some fruit down her throat. It was hard where it was so clogged. She didn’t want to see Father again. It was too upsetting. She noticed Vindar ate nothing at all, but merely moved the food around his plate. His eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. Arya resolved to look only at her plate.

“I’m done, Cousin Niduen.” She announced after she’d eaten what little she could, and Niduen rose and escorted her to a special room where her father’s body lay.

“I’ll leave you alone with him then. Come out when you’re ready.”

Arya nodded resolutely and walked up to the bed where the late king lay. 

“Father?” She whispered tentatively. She was confused about why she was supposed to be here, and what she should say. “I love you.” She paused. “I miss you.” She paused again. This was weird, because he wasn’t answering. Normally, her father would laugh, or smile, or pick her up, or get down on one knee to see her eye to eye, or ask her how her day was, or tell her stories. Arya wasn’t sure what to do with an unresponsive lump. “I hope you’re okay.” She finally concluded, and copied her mother by kissing him on the brow. She walked out feeling hollow. 

Niduen must have seen the lost look in her eyes for she knelt and wrapped her arms around her youngest cousin and began to softly weep. Hugging her back, Arya realised tears were leaking from her eyes again too. 

Arya hid in her room afterwards saying she didn’t want to see anyone. It was true. She’d far rather play with her toys alone in her room than face everyone acting so...weird, different... _sad_. She played until she was bored, then paced around her room, and finally crawled into bed to try and escape into her waking dreams. She must have lain there for hours, Arya thought, as she ignored requests that she join for lunch and dinner, and the room darkened. Her mother entered as the night reached a level of stillness that suggested most every creature must also be in bed, and Arya felt her trail the back of her hand over her cheek.

“Oh, my poor daughter,” she whispered, and laid down on the bed next to her, wrapping her in her arms. Blinking twice, Arya woke properly and looked at the diadem on her mother’s forehead, the one she had once seen on her father. 

“Are you Drottning now?” She whispered.

“Yes,” her mother replied in a weary tone, and closed her eyes. Somehow, Arya knew her mother was too tired to talk. So she rested her ear against her mother’s breast, and tried to soothe herself with the sound of her mother’s heartbeat. 

When she awoke again her mother was gone, but her great-grandfather, who was over a millenia old, was waiting for her. 

“Arya,” he greeted with gentle power, as he knelt before her to grasp both her hands in his. “I’ve volunteered to answer any questions you have. You saw your father yesterday, correct?”

Arya nodded, unable to speak. It was rare that her great-grandfather, Ailangr, deigned to talk to her...or anyone, but especially not youngsters. He preferred solitude and contemplation out in the woods, occasionally visiting with other aged companions. 

“There are others of our family who were also lost to the void. Would you see them?”

Arya gulped. Summoning her courage she dared to ask.

“Who else is...dead?” She assumed then that this “dead” was what “lost to the void” meant. She’d heard it for so long to only now know what it meant. 

“Your grandmother, your grandfather, Niduen’s parents, and your other elder cousins: Hjanar, Dathan, and Ilia.” 

“That’s--that’s--”

“Aye,” in that moment her great-grandfather looked truly old. “That’s half our family. We’ve lost a lot in this war. I fear--” He stopped and shook his head. Then he kissed her on the forehead. “Would you like to see them?”

Arya felt like a coward but shook her head no. Seeing her father had been weird, and strange, and unnatural, and she didn’t want to see the rest of her family like that.

“Will I really never see them again?” Her voice quavered.

“No, you won’t.” He replied. “Not even their bodies after the funeral.”

Arya rolled over and stared at the wall. Her great-grandfather let her be and left the room, for which she was grateful, but he did send her a thought.

_You can hide in your room forever, Arya, but even if you cannot see it, the forest still mourns, and your father is still dead. But you are alive, child. Alive and healthy. Live, because your father cannot, because many cannot, and someday you will go too. Be brave. Live because you are still alive._

Arya wrapped her arms around her pillow and wept. She sobbed for what must have been an hour, sobs that wracked and shook her whole body. She had never known you could cry for so long and so hard. She remembered how it was when her father would quietly step into her room and wrap his arms around her. Everytime she had been sad, he had found her. He was big, and strong, and warm, and he’d made her feel safe in his cocoon. She missed it and cried harder, almost choking. She was alone. _Be brave._ Those were the same words her father had given her before he’d left. 

“Why do you have to go, Father?”

“Because I am the King; I have to lead our people.”

“But why do they have to go?”

His arms encircled her and he lifted her onto his lap. 

“You know about the Dragon Rider who got rid of all the other Rider’s and made himself King?”

“Galbatorix.”

“Yes, him. He must be stopped Arya. And I must do it.”

“Why?”

“Because a King, in fact any good man, cannot ignore evil, Arya. If someone hurt you, I would protect you. I would not have you live in a world where you are unsafe, or if you are already hurt, where it is not condemned as wrong.” Condemned was a big word, but Arya thought she might know what it meant. “A King is a father to all his people. Galbatorix will hurt every elf if he isn’t stopped, and the dragons who are our family too will be lost forever; I cannot stay here while that is true. Our people need me.” He looked at her carefully. “You cannot do nothing while others are hurt. Do you understand?”

“Uh. Huh.” She nodded sadly. “I think so. But I’ll still miss you.”

“And I you, my heart.” He said softly and kissed her on the cheek. “Be brave, my daughter. It’s okay to be afraid, but you are Drottningu, and sometimes you have to go where fear lies, so that others can be safe from it.” 

“Like you do.”

“Yes, like me.” He hugged her tightly again. “Take care of your mother for me.” He winked. “It shouldn’t be too long.” Then his expression had darkened and he’d lifted her chin. “I love you.” He said it so firmly, Arya knew that this was important to him.

“I love you too, Father!” She said throwing her arms around him and kissing him back. “Even more than all the trees in the woods!”

He laughed. “Than all the trees in the woods?! I am a lucky man indeed.”

Now he was gone, and Arya had to be brave. She sat up and wiped her cheeks wondering what that meant, and what she should do. Her stomach rumbled. She was hungry; she should eat. 

When she arrived in the communal dining area she found her entire family having breakfast...what was left of them. Her aunt Nira, her cousins Vindar, Niduen, and Tamanr, and her great-grandfather Ailangr. And that was it. Her only family left. There used to be twice as many. Galbatorix had taken them. Looking at those remaining huddled together, Arya realised how much was gone. And Galbatorix had done this to every family in their kingdom. _All of them._ Mother had lost her entire family in the burning of Luthivira, except grandmother, who had just now died. Anger burned up inside her again, and she clenched her fists. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that they had to hide while that mean traitor-king lived...while her father did not. She felt tears brimming in her eyes once more, but rage creeped into her heart.

“Oh, Arya,” her aunt hurried forward with gentle grace. She resembled her younger brother so greatly, Arya struggled to look at her. She loved her aunt, but it was her father she wanted. Nira piled food onto her plate and set it before her. “It’ll be good for you to eat. Your mother’s in a meeting, but she’ll be here for noon meal, and she said the rest of the day she’ll spend with you.”

“Okay.” Arya found the energy to murmur. She felt inexplicably lonely, but she mustered the will to push the food into her mouth.

“I’m glad to see you took my advice.” Her great-grandfather said smoothly. “We in this family were never ones to run and hide. We stand our ground. That’s why we have been empowered where others have not.” 

“For all the good it did Uncle,” Vindar muttered petulantly.

“From my mate, to my daughter, to my grandson we have ruled.” Ailangr mused. “We had to fall eventually. But there will be a rebirth, a reckoning. There always is.” 

Vindar threw his fork down as he ran from the room with his mother hurrying after him. Arya noticed he had burst into tears.

“It won’t be him if he continues that attitude.” Ailangr muttered as he spread jam on his bread. Arya said nothing, afraid that he would be so indifferent to her as well. 

“My mother is Drottning now, right?” she asked tentatively, worried she was speaking out of turn, especially with Ailangr at the table.

“Yes,” Niduen confirmed. “I dare say they chose well enough. Your mother is fueled by grief and fear of loss. And she was always one to maintain control even without that. She will rule the people cautiously and with a firm hand, but neither will she forget what she has lost, and neglect the Oath-Breaker.”

 _Neither will I_ , Arya decided. It was her and her mother now. Taking care of each other. And _no one_ should get away with hurting so many people. It wasn’t fair. 

“What are we to do now, Mother?” Arya asked as they meandered around the garden upon her mother’s return. She hoped her mother might help her know what to do. Everything felt so sad, it was like trying to move through a dark haze. 

“Galbatorix is too powerful for us to face right now. He stole...power from the dragons, and he has the Wyrdfell’s support.”

“Is he going to find us?” 

“No...not yet, I think. He knows not where we are, and we did do him some damage at Illirea. His dragons may try to burn the forest and find us, but they have not the strength, I think, to face us so blinded. It will take time for the Mad King to consolidate his power.”

“Consolidate?”

“Master. Control. Gather.” Her mother explained. “It shall take him decades. But we shall have to be especially cautious for the next few years, at least. He may retaliate.” Her mother breathed in deeply to steady herself. “However, if he doesn’t, as would be wise of him, we will have time to hoard our energy. Already we are sending word to all the elves to bring their jewels to the centre of their cities where we shall work to fill them with power for our magic. And I have tasked all of our best spell-weavers to work on finding new ways to gain energy, and to attack the King. And Brom,” she pursed her lips tightly, and Arya smiled thinking about what a scandal it had been when Master Oromis had had to knock him unconscious when he’d caused a scene in Rhunon’s forge, “has begged my permission to allow him to leave the forest to search for more dragons, or energy sources. And to help others fight against the King.” She sighed deeply. “This I have granted him, once his Master deems him fit and stable enough to ward off mental attacks. I cannot allow knowledge of our location to be lost to Galbatorix.”

“So...we’re just waiting, and storing up energy?” Arya enquired, struggling to understand the concepts her mother was explaining. 

“It’s all we can do, Arya: Wait, prepare, and hope.” 

Arya nodded vigorously and leaned her head against her mother’s knee. 

“I’ll help.” 

“I’m sure you will.” Her mother whispered distantly, and they spent the rest of their time wrapped together in silence until it was time to prepare for the funeral. 

All the elves gathered around a large field where lay the many hundreds of bodies lost in Ilirea, which Arya had been told was now called Uru’Baen. The various family members placed seeds and young shoots of flowers, shrubs, and trees of their preference over the various bodies. Arya and her mother went likewise and placed young pines, and maple saplings, over the fallen King. Arya couldn’t help but notice her father was being buried with his sword. 

“Mother,” she whispered frantically, “can I take his sword?”

“Yes,” her mother said after a moment of hesitation, “you may as well. It is yours by right, and Rhunon says she will forge no more, and all know her swords are the best.”

Stepping forward, Arya pulled her father’s elegant sword off him, struggling with its size. Her mother made to help her, but Arya refused and, wrapping her arms around it in a tight hug, waddled her way with it back to the dais they were to stand on during the ceremony. This was her father’s sword, and Arya felt protective of it, and bound by it. Looking somehow even more saddened, her mother followed her and when everyone was finished paying their last respects. She made a speech honouring the fallen, and vowing to work towards their vengeance. Justice would be served. Arya clutched her sword tightly and vowed the same. Then everyone’s voice rose as all in Ellesmera sang of loss and rebirth, of death and life, of hope and despair. The flowers and the plants grew, as the bodies descended into the earth never to be seen again. The sight brought a sense of finality to Arya instinctively feeling the end of one part of her life, the beginning of another. 

Before she allowed her mother to tuck her into bed that night, Arya gently placed her father’s sword in a corner of her room where she could always see it as it gleamed in the moonlight. Rubbing a hand over it reverently, she noticed the symbol etched into the metal. 

“What does it mean?” She asked as her mother raised the blankets up to her chin. The Queen took a long time before she answered,

“Wrath.”


	2. Frustrations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya meets Brom and begins to rebel.

It had been over five years since Arya’s father had been killed. Memories of him had started to fade until all that was left for Arya was an ideal, a vague recollection of a kind smile, of strong, warm hugs, of security. She frequently begged stories of him from her aunt, and her mother, when the grief did not seem about to overwhelm her. Mother, when she was not in court, had a fragile air about her, but in public, she was strong, because every elf lived in the dread that today would be the day the Black King set their world aflame. Sometimes Arya thought the strength her mother showed outside of their hall was paid for by the time her mother spent locked in her room when she returned. 

Arya lived under this cloud, and a rage burned in her to rival a dragon’s flame. She wanted to climb out of the shadows and rail at the False King herself. Beyond that though, a yearning to see the worlds outside Alagaesia bloomed within her, and in her free time she devoured histories of her race as they had lived in outside cities, and dreamed of being the one to wield the sword that freed them. Arya loved her home, but she already had learned to despise anything that told her what she had to do...such as stay there. She wanted to wander. She wanted to do what she wanted without all of the rules and bindings. She hated the feeling of being trapped, especially by the person who killed the dragons and her father. It wasn't right. So there came the day the young girl could not concentrate on her studies, because the Rider, Brom Holcombsson, had returned to Du Weldenvarden. Arya couldn’t wait to catch a glimpse of him. He would be staying in her family’s hall. If only she knew when he would be arriving!

“Focus, Drottningu!” Her mentor reprimanded her. Arya huffed loudly relishing the childish display of her temper. Let her frustration be known. What use were numbers when a Rider, who was _human_ , and had left the forest to fight for their freedom was coming to her home? Arya wrote the answer to the problem set before her and looked out the window again craning her neck.

“Focus, child!” Master Dinor sighed deeply, and this time Arya actually took the time to look at him. She felt a surge of pity. Dinor was a well-respected mathematician who looked as slim and precise as the working he favoured. He was thin, and long, and wan in every respect from his silver hair to his grey eyes. It must be difficult to be renowned as a genius with arithmetic only to teach a recalcitrant Princess. Arya pursed her lips, and mumbled an apology with her eyes downturned. 

“Then focus,” he replied. “Even if Brom-finiarel enters this room, you shall not be permitted to speak with him until your studies are complete. You better serve your goal by focusing.”

“Yes, Master.” Arya huffed and threw herself into completing the obnoxious fractions. The moment she was done, and formally dismissed, she dashed off to the gardens waiting for Rider Brom’s arrival. 

Arya did not have to wait terribly long. The gates to the garden opened and in walked her mother who looked impassive as ever, but Arya suspected she was frustrated. Next to her strode a man Arya vaguely recognised from her father’s funeral: Brom Holcombsson. He was somewhat shorter than her mother with brown hair, intense blue eyes under dark eyebrows, a funny looking hooked nose, (no elf would _ever_ have a nose like that), and an impassioned air about him that seemed palpable. It was like he moved faster than the world could keep up with, almost like his own body was merely riding his own current. He seemed quite displeased about something, but that had naught to do with her. Arya could feel her heart racing in anticipation of their meeting. Here was a man who openly defied the king. Here was a piece of history. 

“Brom-vodhr,” her mother spoke briskly, “I believe you remember my daughter, Arya.”

“Indeed so, Your Majesty.” He bowed slightly in her direction. “And even if I did not, she resembles you greatly.”

Arya was not about to waste such an opportunity. Touching her two fingers to her lips, she greeted him. 

“Atra esterni ono thelduin, Brom-elda.” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed her mother’s lips purse slightly at the use of that particular honourific. Arya wondered what had happened between them. Rider Brom had something of a reputation amongst the elves for being an incorrigible, even dangerous, trouble-maker. Secretly, Arya thought it sounded rather fun to kick up that kind of a fuss. She was always expected to be good.

“Atra du evarinya ono varda.” He replied.

Arya added the optional third line, and Brom grimaced.

“Well,” he said in a strange drawl, “maybe there would be peace in my heart if the world wasn’t filled with--”

“Enough, Brom-vodhr,” her mother rebuked. “The matter is settled.”

Arya raised her eyebrows in disbelief. She knew Riders were above any monarch, (something her grandmother Dellanir had disliked, a disliking that had trickled down to her descendants), but it still amazed her to hear someone so openly express frustration with her mother. Or anyone in Du Weldenvarden for that matter who was not a close friend or relation. And to do so so thoroughly her mother seemed at the edge of her temper. It thrilled her.

“Mother,” she said seizing an opportunity presented to her, “perhaps I could show Rider Brom to his rooms? You must both be very tired.” 

Her mother looked at her piercingly, and whatever she saw, smiled slightly, and gestured her consent. Arya did her best to try and not look too pleased. 

“This way, Silverhand,” she gestured with an arm towards the entrance path trying, and failing she was sure, to make the gesture as graceful and regal as her mother would have accomplished. Brom-elda followed after her and Arya racked her brain trying to figure out how to turn the conversation to her advantage. She knew if she messed this up, and Rider Brom complained to her mother, she would not be allowed to speak with him again. She was too young to be able to truly initiate a conversation with him within the bounds of courtesy, but perhaps if she made some inquiries about his comfort after his journey the talk might naturally shift?

“You have travelled far and widely, Brom-elda,” she started nervously trying to adopt her mother’s inflections and word choice, “We have tried to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. You’ll have our best rooms, and there will be fresh clothes and food waiting. Is there anything else you desire?” 

The Rider shook his head. “What I desire I’m not bound to get anytime soon.” He grumbled. 

“Are you certain? What is it that you desire?” 

He snorted. “Courage. But it’s in plenty short supply.” 

Arya bristled. “What do you mean? My father died defending us! Elves do not lack for courage.” Horror filled her as she realised that she had spoken so out of turn to an elder. Mother would surely reprimand her, and she would not be allowed to talk to such distinguished guests again. To her shock though, Rider Brom laughed which softened his face considerably, and made him look much younger. Distantly, Arya remembered hearing that he was quite young, even by human standards, and still in his twenties.

“Well aren’t you a spunky Princess!” He chortled, and in the blink of an eye his face was somber once more and lines etched across his forehead. “Peace. I didn’t mean to offend you. I fought with your father. He was brave. I fear seeing him struck down has turned your people timid. It’s understandable enough, I suppose, and caution is warranted, but we’ll never have peace if we hide in our burrows like rabbits. Eventually, the foxes will find us. I’d rather strike first. Not foolishly. But first.” 

Mustering all her daring Arya asked, “Is that what you quarreled with Mother over?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” 

And nothing more could be said, since they arrived at their destination.

“By your leave, Brom-elda,” she said politely. He nodded at her as he entered the room, and already removing his sword and pack, closed the door behind him. 

The moment he was out of sight Arya hopped on her tiptoes before racing to find her mother. She _had_ to know what had transpired. Just before she reached the door outside her mother’s quarters, she composed herself lest her mother chastise her for her haste. She knocked twice on the door frame.

“Enter!” 

Arya did so and took a seat on the floor by her mother’s chair, leaning her dark head against her mother’s knee. Her mother absent-mindedly soothed her daughter’s hair. She had a distant, haunted look on her face. 

“What happened, Mother?” 

Her mother laughed hoarsely. “An angry fool bent on vengeance, who is both short-sighted and arrogant, taunted us.”

“What do you mean?” 

Her mother sighed deeply. “Brom-vodhr is of the opinion that we need to begin systematically assassinating the remaining members of the wyrdfell.”

Arya frowned. She couldn’t see what was wrong with that. They could hardly defeat Galbatorix when he still had so many of his Dragon Rider servants. She told her mother so.

“Yes. Yes. But Arya, we have not the means to do it. Brom-vodhr was of the opinion that we should place spies to tell us where the various members go, and when they are alone, we should ambush them. He came to us, because we are the strongest race, best able to help him.”

“Why did you refuse him?”

“Because, Arya, we have not the strength to match them.”

“But if there were enough of us...and it was an ambush?”

“Perhaps we would succeed, but if Galbatorix suspected our involvement, as he surely will. Will he not rain down destruction on us? We are far too weakened to take such risks now. Worse still, if even one of our race is captured, and that Mad-King were to find our locations. We would all be doomed.”

“Oh…” Arya trailed off thoughtfully. “But won’t Galbatorix come eventually?”

“Probably, but it will be decades upon decades before he is ready to truly try, unless we test him. By that point, we will have stored away enough energy to be able to defend ourselves. Until then, we shall bide our time. I’ll not condemn our race to extinction for one man’s foolhardiness. He is so despicably...human.” She sneered. 

Arya frowned at that, absorbing it. Human. It was thrown around like a curse-word these days. Galbatorix was human. He was unstable. A failing in their race, or so it was said. Their kind should never have been allowed to be Riders. Arya couldn’t say one way or another if it was true. Brom-elda was the only human she’d ever met. But ever since his outburst towards Rhunon-elda, the mutterings had increased. Some had denounced his actions as grief from the loss of his dragon, but even so, it did hint at an inherent instability, a lack of discipline. Humans were smelly, short-sighted, and short-lived. They charged forward without considering all the consequences, even if people were trampled under foot. Barbarians, in other words. Mother was saying that Brom was too angry, and wild, and not in the good way, to see that he would hurt people. Brom was _human_. Arya knew not what to say. She sympathised with Brom, and wanted to take down the Wyrdfell, but she trusted her mother’s judgement even as she dreamed of ambushing those who had betrayed their race, Order, and cause. And everyone spoke ill of humans. Mother was probably right.

“Let us speak of other matters, Arya. I dislike this topic, and you are far too young to be worrying over it.” Arya disagreed, but knew by now to hold her tongue. She so rarely got to spend time with her mother as it was. “Master Dinor tells me you were difficult today.” Arya shut her eyes tightly. She should have known she would not escape the day without a lecture. Behind her eyes she felt the welling of tears. Sometimes, it seemed to Arya, all Mother ever did was criticise. Arya wondered why she bothered to even try. 

Resentment and insecurity haunted Arya as she endeavoured to rest that night. It bothered her how distant her mother had become. Arya had lived in a world of shadows since her father died. Clinging to her mother as her only parent left, Arya had worked hard to appease her, to be brave and strong and supportive, and had sought her out at every rare opportunity when she was not lost to grief or politics. But Arya was tired of never feeling good enough, and was starting to wonder if there was even a point to trying at all. _I fear seeing him struck down has turned your people timid._ Arya did not want to be called a coward, did not want to be viewed as a coward who ran around everywhere trying to please people. She was Drottningu. It shouldn't work like that. Light glinted off her father’s sword which remained in the corner of her room. Arya wished she were old enough to wield it, but even if she was. What would she do with it if she wasn’t allowed to leave? She rolled over and huffed again. 

“Mother,” she asked at breakfast the next day. “When will we oppose Galbatorix?”

Her mother raised her head and stared at her from across the table. Arya thought she detected a hint of anger in her eyes. “When we are ready,” she replied.

“How will you know when we are ready? When we have enough energy? It’s been years since Father’s defeat. Surely, we’ve stored enough in our jewels.”

“That, uh, is, I believe, what I said.” Rider Brom said with a hint of amusement. He was seated between them as their honoured guest. Niduen and Tamanr sat on the other side. “And you can die before capture if things go that badly. We need to reduce the threat.”

“And, since I must repeat myself,” her mother said haltingly, “it is insufficient to combat the king. As we speak, our spellweavers are working on new means of harnessing energy, on weapons to rival the Dauthdearts of old, on new spells. We will not march to war again until we are ready. We cannot afford to attract the King’s eyes or lose anymore elves. We are not prepared for more losses.”

“And if the Forsworn all band together and attack? Wouldn’t it be better to pick them off one by one? What if you never find the means in time to harness more energy? What need do you have for more weapons? Can the ones you have puncture an artery? Pierce the heart? Yes? Then, they’ll work! Take them one at a time rather than hoping just maybe you’ll survive them all at once!” Rider Brom’s voice rose in a fervour.

Mother closed her eyes tightly, after a brief pause she spoke, enunciating every word with care, “There are many variables, and possibilities, but my decision is final. A _former_ Rider you may be, but you do not command my people. I do. And I shall not waver on this point.”

“So be it.” Rider Brom said tightly as he shoveled food into his mouth. 

“And, Arya,” Arya gulped as her mother looked at her sternly. “I would speak to you after breakfast.”

“Yes, Mother.” Arya said quietly knowing that in her anger she had violated the bounds of courtesy and etiquette by questioning her mother so, and worse in front of a guest. 


End file.
